


Occupational Hazard

by GravityCanFly



Series: Cabin Pressure [3]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Comfort, Family, Gen, Minor Illness, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:05:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GravityCanFly/pseuds/GravityCanFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Food poisoning is not the only occupational hazard faced by pilots... </p><p>Douglas isn't very well, Martin wants to make it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 Martin settled into his seat, sipping his coffee. It had been five long days hopping between Mediterranean islands, and they were finally on their way back to Fitton for three well-deserved days off. It was quiet in the flight deck. He and Douglas had run out of games two days before and had become thoroughly fed up with one another. They sat in amiable silence.

 A small groan came from Martin's right, and he glanced over at his first officer.

 “You okay?”

 Douglas turned to face his captain, who immediately noticed the sheen across the man's forehead and his grey pallor. “It looks like you pulled the long straw this time,” Douglas muttered.

 “The food in the hotel?” Martin asked.

 Douglas nodded in reply. “I think so.”

 “Oh christ.” Martin tried and failed to keep himself from re-living in his memory the occasion that he had food poisoning whilst in flight. “We're forty minutes from home.”

 “Fingers crossed then.”

 -

 “Anything you need me to do, Carolyn?” Martin asked as they wandered over to the portakabin.

 “I think you'd better get him-” Carolyn jerked her head in the direction of the first officer, walking slowly behind them with one arm wrapped tightly around his waist, “-home as soon as possible.”

 Martin glanced back at Douglas, noting that he looked worse than he had just five minutes before. At least he hadn't been sick on the plane. “Okay. I'll catch up with paperwork later.”

 Carolyn nodded her approval, and Martin turned back to Douglas. “Alright, let's get home.”

 Douglas nodded slightly. He pulled out his car keys and held them out to Martin. “You can drive.”

 Martin faltered. “I'm not insured to drive your car.”

 “Then don't have an accident,” Douglas bit out.

 Martin looked at the keys in his hand and thought. It would be breaking the law. He couldn't break the law. Then he looked up at Douglas. Sod the law. It would be criminally stupid to let him drive like this. “Okay.”

 -

 Douglas leant his forehead against the cool glass of the window as Martin drove, marvelling at the way the Lexus handled. There could not be a more different driving experience to his van than this car. Despite his concern for the grey-faced man beside him, he felt a small smile creep onto his face driving the powerful car.

 “Pull over,” Douglas commanded.

 “Huh?”

 “Pull. Over.”

 Ah. Martin understood, and pulled the car quickly to the side of the road. Almost before he had stopped, Douglas was out of the car and on his hands and knees on the grass verge. Martin climbed out of the car and walked round to his first officer. He placed a supporting hand on Douglas's forehead as the man retched painfully. He looked steadfastly out into the road, away from the performance, knowing that it would be killing Douglas to be seen like this. Eventually the retching stopped and Douglas sat back on his heels.

 “Finished?”

 “For now.” Douglas stood and returned to the passenger seat of his car. He sat with the door open, taking long deliberate breaths of cool fresh air. Martin dug around in his flight bag for a bottle of water, which he handed to Douglas. Douglas accepted it wordlessly. Martin closed the door on his first officer and climbed back into the car.

 -

 They had to pull over twice more before they reached Douglas's house, whereupon Douglas took himself straight to the downstairs loo for the next round. Martin grabbed their flight bags and followed him inside. He poured a glass of water and took it to Douglas.

 “Hey,” he said softly, setting the glass down.

 “I'm dying,” Douglas muttered into the toilet bowl.

 “Possibly,” Martin smiled. “I'll go find you some comfortable clothes. Okay?”

 Douglas nodded in agreement, and Martin left and climbed the stairs to Douglas's room. He searched through the drawers for comfortable trousers, and eventually determined that Douglas didn't own such a thing and settled for pyjama bottoms and an Air England T-shirt, which he assumed probably wasn't a prized possession.

 Once Douglas had changed, Martin gathered up his uniform and slung it into the washing machine along with each of their clothes from the trip. He stood in the kitchen and stripped off, adding his own uniform to the load. He set it off on a hot wash and, once dressed, went back to check on Douglas again.

 He found him leant heavily against the wall, looking older and more vulnerable than he had ever seen him. He felt a slight flip in his stomach as he took Douglas in, and hoped that he wasn't going to come down with whatever he had. He slid down the wall and sat on the floor in the doorway. They sat together without speaking, the occasional groan from Douglas breaking the silence in between sessions. Martin stroked Douglas's back or held his head as he was sick, feeling utterly ineffectual but not wanting to leave the older man to do this alone.

 After some time, Douglas looked up at Martin suddenly. “Get out,” he said urgently. Martin looked puzzled. “Get out, now.” Douglas gave Martin such a stern look it almost scared him. He stepped out of the room and closed the door. He waited, picking at his nails. After a time, he heard the toilet flush and the taps running. He knocked on the door.

 “How are you doing?” he called.

 “Martin, please leave me alone.” Douglas's voice came weakly.

 “Okay.” Martin sighed and looked at the floor. “Shout if you need anything.”

 -

 Martin was sat on the sofa reading the newspaper when his phone rang. He looked at the screen. Carolyn.

 “Hello?”

 “Hi Skip!” Arthur's voice blared out of the phone.

 “Hi Arthur. Everything alright?”

 “Yeah, we're fine. How's Douglas?”

 Martin sighed, his eyes moving in the direction of the loo, even though there were walls in the way. “Not well.”

 “Oh.” Arthur sounded disappointed. “He didn't look very well.”

 “He looks worse now,” Martin said with a hint of a smile.

 “Are you okay?”

 “Yeah, I'm fine. Uh, did you or Carolyn have the same food as Douglas in the hotel?”

 “No, we already thought of that. Mum wanted me to offer to do some shopping for you if you needed it.”

 “Oh, that's... sweet. I think we're fine though.”

 “Oh.” Arthur sounded disappointed. “Never mind then.”

 “But you never know, Douglas might decide tomorrow that the only thing he can eat is something we don't have.”

 “Okay!” Arthur immediately sounded brighter. “Let me know!”

 “Alright. Thanks Arthur.”

 “Bye.”

 “Bye.”

 Martin ended the call and tossed his phone down on the table. He smiled, wondering if Douglas realised how much people cared for him. He felt intensely glad that Douglas had offered him lodgings, so he didn't have to be this sick here alone.

 Only moments after Martin returned his attention to the newspaper, the landline rang. Martin hesitated. The landline didn't get much use, so in his time living here he hadn't yet answered it. His hand hovered over the phone, until it occurred to him that if nothing else the ringing would annoy Douglas. He answered the phone.

 “Hello?”

 “Hello? Who's that?” a voice screeched down the phone.

 “This is Martin... Martin Crieff. Who am I speaking to?”

 “Julia. Can I speak to Douglas?”

 “Julia?” Martin muttered, remembering the name from somewhere. Then it struck him. “Oh, Julia.”

 “Yes. Can I speak to Douglas?”

 “Ah, no.” Martin replied. “I mean, he can't come to the phone.”

 “Oh, typical. Hiding, is he?”

 “No, he's not hiding.” Martin bristled. He felt something snap inside him. “He has his head down the loo rejecting everything he's eaten for three days. So he's not available to chat. Can I take a message?”

 There was a pause on the other send of the line. “I need to talk to him about Isobel's school fees. I'll send an email.”

 “I'll let him know you called,” Martin said coldly.

 -

 Martin finished the newspaper, even having scanned the sports section, and decided to go and check on Douglas. He knocked on the door and received no reply, so entered. He found Douglas slumped against the wall, eyes closed, head falling to one side.

 “Douglas?”

 There was no response. Martin shook Douglas's shoulder, and the older man jumped.

 “What? What is it?”

 “You fell asleep.”

 “Oh, heaven forbid you let a sick man sleep.” Douglas rubbed a hand over his face.

 “I thought you might have died or something.” Martin gave a small grin, testing the waters. Douglas returned a cold, flat look. “If you're going to sleep, you probably should do it in bed.”

 Douglas nodded slowly. He gripped the sink with one hand and braced the other against the wall and pulled himself to his feet. He stood in place and swayed slightly. He blinked a few times. “I don't much fancy the stairs,” he said at length.

 “The sofa then,” Martin conceded, and slipped a hand under Douglas's elbow. He guided the older man into the living room, walking slightly behind him, concerned as he was by Douglas's wobbly gait. He wasn't sure exactly what his plan was should Douglas fall; the older man was a good six inches taller than Martin and probably three or four stone heavier. Having escorted Douglas to the sofa, Martin went to find a bucket to place by his head. Then he boiled the kettle, and searched the cupboards for the ingredients for his mother's answer to dioralyte. Honey, salt, bicarbonate of soda, and lemon. He mixed the drink and took it through to Douglas.

 “That's awful,” said Douglas, taking a sip.

 “Yep,” Martin agreed. “But it will help.”

 Douglas groaned, and curled up into a ball. Martin found himself wanting to sit beside him and stroke his hair. He shook his head. Where was that coming from? He turned away from his first officer, determined to find something to distract him from these strange feelings. He pulled a book off the shelf and sat in Douglas's reading chair, usually out of bounds to him, and read.

 -

 It came to 11 o'clock and Douglas was still asleep on the sofa. He didn't look terribly comfortable, but Martin was glad that the worst seemed to be over. He persuaded himself that there was nothing he could do for Douglas at this stage and should go to bed. He found it oddly difficult to leave the room. He undressed and climbed into bed, deliberately leaving the door open so that he might hear if Douglas got up. He intended to lie awake, listening out for sounds of movement, but he was asleep within minutes of closing his eyes.

 -

 Martin woke up the next morning to light streaming through the windows. He blinked in the brightness, and looked at his phone. Half past eight. Positively a lie-in compared to the previous week. He sat up and stretched, reaching up to the ceiling and feeling the pull in his back of five days' constant flying. He climbed out of bed and threw on an ancient pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He wandered into the kitchen and poured himself his standard bowl of shredded wheat, sleep having diluted the previous day's experiences enough that he could feel hungry again.

 He rinsed his bowl in the sink and slipped it into the dishwasher. He filled a glass of water and took it through to the lounge, where Douglas was still asleep stretched out on the sofa. Martin was pleased to see that the glass of his mother's answer to dioralyte was almost empty and the yellow bucket by Douglas's head remained clean and unused. He retrieved the newspaper from the doormat and returned to his spot in Douglas's chair.

 “Morning,” Douglas's raspy voice came as Martin examined the lifestyle pages.

 “Hi,” Martin smiled, putting the paper aside. “How are you doing?”

 “I feel,” Douglas paused, thinking of the words, “as though I have been trampled by a bloat of graceless hippos.”

 Martin chuckled. “That's an image.” He paused. “A _bloat_?”

 “Mm. That's the word.”

 Martin shook his head with a smile. “You don't half know some crap.” He stood, stretched, and asked: “Do you think you can eat?”

 Douglas shook his head. “A cup of tea would be wonderful, though.”

 Martin nodded, and wandered off to the kitchen. He returned presently with two mugs of tea.

 “Your ex-wife rang,” he said, as he remembered the conversation with Julia.

 “Oh. What did she want?”

 “You don't want to ask which one?”

 “Martin, only one of my ex-wives would bother to ring me.”

 “Oh, okay. She wanted to talk to you about Isobel's school fees. She said she'd send you an email.”

 Douglas groaned. “I suppose I'd better look at that.” He pulled himself up on his elbows and looked around the room. “Where's my phone?”

 “Oh, it's in the kitchen.”

 Douglas frowned. “Why?”

 “I washed your uniform. It was in the pocket.”

 “Oh, thanks,” Douglas said, sitting up. He groaned and closed his eyes.

 “I'll get it.” Martin left the room, returning at once with the phone which he handed to Douglas.

 Douglas accepted the phone and lay back down. He swiped the screen and chuckled. Then his face grew dark. “Jesus christ,” he muttered, and threw his phone down on the table.

 “What is it?”

 “What exactly did you say to my ex-wife?” Douglas's voice was dangerous.

 “Ah. I got a bit cross.” Martin blushed and averted his eyes. “I told her you were sick.”

 “She hasn't sent me a very friendly email.”

 “What does she say?”

 “It doesn't matter,” Douglas sighed. “The gist of it is that I need to give her £10,000.”

 “ _Ten thousand_?” Martin asked, incredulously.

 “Isobel goes to a very good school,” Douglas said flatly.

 “How do you afford that?”

 “I have investments.”

 -

 “Here goes,” Douglas sighed, looking at the dry toast Martin had set in front of him. He took a bite, chewed it slowly and swallowed. He waited a moment, then took another bite. He went on in this fashion until there was half a slice left. He stopped and started taking deep, slow breaths. He sat that way for a minute or two, then quite suddenly slid forward off the sofa onto his knees, and threw up into the bucket. He sat back, and gave Martin an apologetic smile.

 “Too soon.”

 “It's alright,” Martin said, taking the bucket. He returned a minute or two later with the bucket clean. Douglas was once again curled up on the sofa.

 “I feel rotten,” he moaned.

 Just then, the landline rang and Martin reached for it. “Hello? Oh, hello Julia. No, he's still not-”

 Douglas cut him off. “Give it here.”

 “But...”

 “Give it here,” Douglas insisted. Martin sighed and handed the phone to Douglas.

 “Hello Julia,” Douglas spoke into the phone. “If you like... No, no, food poisoning. Something of an occupational hazard...” he paused, listening with a slightly pained expression. “As enjoyable as this is, can we get to the point? Yes, I'll get onto the bank tomorrow and have the money transferred... Okay. Goodbye.” He hit the end call button and passed the phone back to Martin who returned it to its cradle.

 “She's a delight.”

 “Just leave it, Martin,” Douglas muttered.

 They sat in silence for a while, Douglas curled up on the sofa and Martin reading.

 “I've had a thought,” Douglas said, eventually.

 “Hm?”

 “We probably should get you insured to drive my car.”

 “Really?”

 “Yes, well, we drive to work together every day. It makes sense for us both to be able to drive the car.” Douglas examined Martin's stunned face. “You're not expecting to move out any time soon?”

 “No, I'm not.”

 “Well then. I'll phone the insurance company tomorrow.”

 Martin hid his grin behind his paperback.

 -

 Douglas pulled himself upright, groaning as his back and joints complained at the movement. He felt like he must have been lying on the sofa for so long that his body had moulded to the shape of it. He struggled to his feet, pain shooting down both of his legs. He climbed the stairs slowly, pulling his feet up one at a time. He felt like his blood had been replaced with mercury and his bones with lead. He sat on his bed, exhausted by the climb. He threw back some co-codamol and lay back on the bed. He was too old for this. His body didn't work like it used to – he couldn't fly an aircraft on two hours sleep, he couldn't sit in the first officer's seat for hours on end without his back starting to scream, he couldn't recover from a bout of food poisoning overnight. He felt like he might never recover.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tempers start to wear thin in the Richardson/Crieff household. We're in Douglas's head a lot. Arthur and Carolyn appear briefly at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely 100% happy with this, but I said I'd post this week and the deadline I had in mind for myself was today, so this is what you shall have.

 

The alarm clock broke the dawn silence in Martin's bedroom, dragging him from his sleep. He groaned and rolled over to silence the shrill ringing. He lay with his eyes closed, knowing that he couldn't afford to stay where he was, but the comfortable warmth in his chest made him feel too heavy to move. He sighed and rolled out of the bed, shivering in the cold November morning. He climbed into his battered old combat trousers and Levi T-shirt and began the hunt for socks without holes. Once he had located one sock without holes and another with only one hole, so his big toe poked through, he wandered through to the kitchen.

“Good morning, Martin,” Douglas's voice floated into the hallway.

“Douglas?” Martin spun round to see the shadow of Douglas sat in his chair in the living room.

“You're up early.”

“Yes... I am, and yet here you are.” Martin stepped into the room and took a proper look at the shadow's owner. Douglas was sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, arms propped on the arm-rests, head leant back against the chair and eyes closed. “How are you feeling?”

“Perfect,” Douglas spat.

Martin sighed and turned away. “I'm doing a house clearance today. I'll probably be back quite late. If you need anything call Arthur.”

“I won't need anything, I am fine,” Douglas's voice acquired a hard edge.

“Yeah, well, even so. Call Arthur.”

Douglas sighed forcefully, his breath almost whistling through his nose. Martin sighed, shrugged and left.

-

Martin kicked his boots off in the hallway and dumped his coat on the rack. He switched the light on in the living room as he entered and found it empty. He picked up the newspaper from the coffee table as he wandered through and went to the kitchen, which was also dark and empty. He frowned.

“Douglas?” he called up the stairs. There was no reply. Martin shrugged, and stepped into his room to strip off his dusty clothes. He turned on the shower and relished the hot water pouring over his skin, relaxing muscles wound tight from a day of heavy lifting and heavier sympathy. He stretched, leaning against the cool tiles, letting the ache in his back fade.

He padded through to the kitchen in his pyjamas and socks and surveyed the contents of the fridge. He noticed that nothing in the kitchen had been moved since he had left that morning, save for a single glass sitting in the sink. Even the milk was at the same level. He shook his head and set to work.

“What are you doing?” Douglas’s voice came from the doorway. Martin turned.

“Hi,” he said, examining Douglas’s face.

Douglas frowned, squinting in the lights of the kitchen. “What are you doing?” he repeated.

“Cooking. Risotto,” he added, “easy to digest, y’know…”

Douglas grunted, turning his head away. “How was your…” he paused, trying to remember, “whatever it was you did today.”

“House clearance,” Martin provided. “It was okay. Bit bloody depressing.”

Douglas made a low noise in his throat that Martin decided to take as one of interest.

“The daughter was there. Not very happy about her mum’s things being taken away.” Douglas didn’t respond. “How was your day?”

Douglas was quiet for a moment, sagging in the doorway. Eventually he seemed to find himself and spoke: “Uneventful.”

“Why don’t you go and sit down?” Martin suggested.

Douglas looked up slightly surprised, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was. He nodded after a moment and turned into the living room.

-

Martin picked up the two plates of risotto and carried them through to the living room. He set one down in front of Douglas and sat beside him.

“Thanks,” Douglas said, looking slightly more self-possessed than he had ten minutes before.

Douglas took a moment to pick up his fork and begin, so Martin started eating without him. The food was bland, deliberately so, so as not to upset Douglas’s stomach, but that good reason made it no less dull. Martin ate slowly, chewing each mouthful carefully before swallowing it. He took a surreptitious glance at Douglas, not wanting the older man to feel he was being watched. Douglas pushed his rice around the plate with his fork, taking the occasional small mouthful. Martin was pleased to see that he was eating, however slowly, and turned his attention back to his own plate.

After what could have been a lifetime Douglas set his plate down and looked across at Martin with a scowl. Martin ignored his expression and appraised the plate. It was two-thirds empty, which Martin decided was sufficient. He collected the plates and took them to the kitchen where he slipped them into the dishwasher. He quickly tidied up and returned to the living room where he found Douglas sitting forward in his seat, hands balled into fists and pressed hard against his thighs. Martin paused and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Douglas had leapt up and ran from the room. Martin heard the door to the downstairs loo open followed by the painful sound of what had been risotto meeting porcelain.

Martin waited a moment, holding his breath unconsciously, until the noise stopped. Then he followed. He stopped in the doorway, looking at the pale, sweaty figure of Douglas crumpled on the floor.

“I’m going to sue that fucking hotel,” Martin spat, feeling rage building inside him with every exhausted breath that Douglas took.

“Alright, Martin, you’re not American,” Douglas croaked, pulling himself upright. He looked Martin up and down. “Can I not vomit alone in my own home?”

Martin sagged. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Now piss off.”

-

Douglas woke up in the night darkness. He rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut hoping for sleep, begging for the oblivion of unconsciousness. It did not come. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. He grabbed the alarm clock from his bedside table and squinted at it, trying to make out the numbers in the darkness. He groped for his reading spectacles. 4am. He groaned, discarding the spectacles, and rolled onto his side. It soon became obvious that sleep was not an option. He sat up, switching on the bedside light. He was surprised - and pleased - that the movement didn’t cause his stomach to lurch. The ache throughout his body remained, though, and he reached for the painkillers and water beside him. After a few mouthfuls of water a familiar feeling crept into his stomach. He froze, afraid for a moment that he was going to vomit again. A moment passed, and he recognised the sensation. Hunger.

He crept downstairs leaning heavily on the banister, his legs not seeming to work as they should. He stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed a box of cereal and a bowl. He sat at the table and began to pick slowly at the dry cornflakes. The more he ate the hungrier he felt. He finished the bowl and leant back in his chair, feeling as though it had been much more than three days since he had been able to eat and feel full rather than nauseated. He picked up the newspaper from where Martin had left it and took it into the living room.

-

Martin smiled at the cornflake box and empty bowl still sat on the table in the morning. He tidied them away and put the kettle on, pulling down his prized Stapleford Flight Centre mug and Douglas’s “World’s Best Dad” mug, as painted by Isobel many years prior. Douglas had rolled his eyes and laughed as he told Martin the story, commenting that he could maybe qualify for “World’s Best Absentee Dad”, if he was lucky.

Martin took the two mugs of tea through to the lounge and smiled again at Douglas, asleep on the sofa with the newspaper spread across him. He set the mugs down and gathered the paper up, careful not to disturb the sleeping man. He folded the newspaper and set it aside, before collecting the most recent edition from the doormat. He sat, sipping his tea and reading about the most recent developments in the Malian conflict.

-

Douglas felt the ache throughout his body before he really realised he was awake. He rolled from one side onto the other, trying to find a position in which his body didn’t hurt, but there wasn’t one. He wondered if he had forgotten an encounter with Medusa and was in fact now made of stone. He hurt all over as he lay still, but every movement caused at least one joint to cry out in sharp protest so he stayed as he was, under his heavy blanket of pain.

Eventually he opened his eyes to soft morning light filling the southerly end of the room, his head still in shadow. Martin was in what now seemed to be his permanent residence, reading the paper in the chair. Douglas felt a prickle of annoyance. Martin Crieff, his Captain purely in title, had sat and read and watched and observed his every weakness during the last few days. He felt an urge to drive the young captain from the room, but doing so required movement, which felt beyond him. Something else stopped him too. Somewhere, beneath the irritation and wounded pride, he felt an undercurrent of comfort. Martin’s quiet, steady presence throughout his illness made him feel somehow safer. He was grateful, also, that everything had been taken care of, without him even having to ask. Mostly though, on the surface, where he could feel his emotions most, he felt irritated with himself for being vulnerable and with Martin for being there to see it.

He pulled himself to sitting position with a grimace, casting a threatening look at Martin, who had at once set down his paper and was beginning to stand. He took a few deep breaths and tried to locate any sensory information other than the ache throughout his body. Slowly he became aware that he was hungry. Then quite suddenly he remembered every food he had ever eaten. It was as though a switch had been turned on, and he could feel within him the taste and smell and texture of all manner of disparate foodstuffs all at once. He thought of miso soup with strips of grilled chicken and udon noodles. He thought of christmas dinner, turkey and stuffing and roast potatoes and parsnips and bread sauce and cranberry jam. He thought of Eton Mess and trifle and the crack of the torched top of a creme brulee. He thought of toast and raspberries and salad dressing and onions and cheese. His stomach rumbled.

“You alright?” Martin inquired.

“Hungry,” Douglas said simply, still slightly thrown by the imaginary onslaught to his senses.

“What do you want?”

“Christmas dinner and miso soup,” Douglas said, with a slightly puzzled expression. “But I can probably settle for muesli.”

Martin nodded and made to stand.

“Hold it!” Douglas barked. Martin jumped and looked at him, now his turn to look puzzled. “I am better,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I don’t need you to wait on me, Martin.”

He stood, stiffly, and left.

-

“Morning Douglas!” Arthur cried, bouncing towards the pilots as they entered the portakabin.

“Good morning, Arthur.”

“Are you better?”

“Yes thank you.”

“Was it really really gross?” Arthur asked, his eyes shining.

“Uh, quite unpleasant, Arthur, yes.”

“It’s brilliant being ill!” Arthur enthused, either not noticing or not caring that Douglas had fixed him with his steeliest gaze. “Once, I drank loads and loads of Ribena and-”

“That is enough, Arthur!” Carolyn interjected. “Martin does not need to hear this story and Douglas and I certainly do not need to hear it again.” She paused, and muttered under her breath: “I had to sell that car.”

“And you had to throw away your suit!” Arthur added proudly.

“I did.” Carolyn agreed with a shudder.

“Ye-es…” Douglas said, “This is a delightful topic of conversation, but I think I’ll just read my copy of Airsider if it’s all the same to you…”

Douglas settled down with his magazine, and Martin turned his attention to the paperwork he had failed to file those days before.

-

“For christ’s sake!” Douglas cried, as the coffee Arthur had spilled flowed over his magazine and onto his lap.

“Sorry, Douglas I’m sorry, Douglas, sorry,” Arthur stammered, patting ineffectually at the coffee puddle with a tea towel. Douglas glared up at him.

“Whose idea was it to let this clot walk around with hot liquids?” he demanded. Arthur’s bottom lip began to tremble. Douglas sighed, the rush of air sounding like a growl in this throat. He pushed his chair back from the table, stood, and stalked out of the portakabin.

“Is he okay?” Carolyn asked in a low voice.

“I think so,” Martin ventured, watching the door slam closed.

“He’s in a foul mood.”

“Well he would be, wouldn’t he. Douglas Richardson, Mighty God of the Skies, had his sick bucket cleaned by Martin Crieff.” Martin smiled slightly. “You know how he is with his pride.”

Carolyn shook her head slightly. “I wouldn’t want to share close quarters with Douglas when he’s ill. I don’t envy you that.”

Martin smiled. “It wasn’t that bad, actually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The journal I refer to here, Airsider, is not actually a print journal. Call it artistic licence.
> 
> Also, I'm sure Douglas later apologised to Arthur. It can be a bit alarming having hot coffee poured over your crotch.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Douglas :(  
> I'm sooo busy right now so there might be a bit of a wait for the second chapter.  
> Thanks everyone for feedback, kudos, comments. I love you all :D


End file.
